which, the poor girl was not very happy, but in that again did she not give
proof of belonging to her time?
    There existed a Mr. Denyer, but this gentleman was very seldom indeed in the
bosom of his family. Letters - and remittances - came from him from the most
surprising quarters of the globe. His profession was that of speculator at
large, and, with small encouragement of any kind, he toiled unceasingly to
support his wife and daughters in their elegant leisure. At one time he was
eagerly engaged in a project for making starch from potatoes in the south of
Ireland. When this failed, he utilized a knowledge of Spanish - casually picked
up, like all his acquirements - and was next heard of at Vera Cruz, where he
dealt in cochineal, indigo, sarsaparilla, and logwood. Yellow fever interfered
with his activity, and after a brief sojourn with his family in the United
States, where they had joined him with the idea of making a definite settlement,
he heard of something promising in Egypt, and thither repaired. A spare,
vivacious, pathetically sanguine man, always speaking of the day when he would
settle down in enjoyment of a moderate fortune, and most obviously doomed never
to settle at all, save in the final home of mortality.
    Mrs. Lessingham and her niece entered the room. On Cecily, as usual, all
eyes were more or less openly directed. Her evening dress was simple - though
with the simplicity not to be commanded by every one who wills - and her
demeanour very far from exacting general homage; but her birthright of
distinction could not be laid aside, and the suave Mrs. Gluck was not singular
in recognizing that here was such a guest as did not every day grace her
pension. Barbara and Madeline Denyer never looked at her without secret pangs.
In appearance, however, they were very friendly, and Cecily had met their
overtures from the first with the simple goodwill natural to her. She went and
seated herself by Madeline, who had on her lap a little portfolio.
    »These are the drawings of which I spoke,« said Madeline, half opening the
portfolio.
    »Mr. Marsh's? Oh, I shall be glad to see them!«
    »Of course, we ought to have daylight, but we'll look at them again
to-morrow. You can form an idea of their character.«
    They were small water-colours, the work - as each declared in fantastic
signature - of one Clifford Marsh, spoken of by the Denyers, and by Madeline in
particular, as